


Tempered Grace

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adversity is a hammer upon the spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempered Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my self-imposed 10 year anniversary of Re-Entry. ...Also, I think there's this whole "Women of SW theme" going.

The first time Shmi Skywalker lays eyes on Qui-Gon Jinn, she feels like she’s meeting a kindred spirit.  It’s an odd, disconcerting feeling—in her experience, males of his stature tend to be dangerous, and are creatures to avoid.

He is tall enough to make her feel slight, and she is not a short woman.  He has blue eyes that could be piercing, she thinks, but he looks at Shmi, at Anakin, and particularly at Obi-Wan, with a great deal of concern, and no little affection for the latter. 

It’s when she corners him later, before he returns to his ship to use a blood analyzer and speak to his people, that she gets his full measure.  “Do you think this could have happened to others?” she asks.

Jinn is horrified by the very idea.  “Lady Skywalker, for the sake of the loved ones who would surround them, I genuinely hope not.”

It’s enough to see what kind of man he is, and Shmi is very good at reading people.  Finally, she begins to believe that they really will be saved, that her long life as a slave will end in freedom, not death.

Qui-Gon speaks to her often, treating her like a person of value.  It’s hard, at first, since she’s not used to it.  But his words are soft, and he is always kind.  He is the sort of Jedi she grew up hearing legends about, but no Jedi she has ever met in person acts as he does.

When she packs up the contents of their home, the place she has shared with Anakin for three years, Shmi is surprised by how little there is.  Most of the items that surround her are not personal, and will go to the next slave family that comes to inhabit the building.  A few data chips and older memory crystals are all that are really worth keeping, and her clothes are sparse.  She does keep all of the jewelry she has made, combining wood and bone and colorful chips of stone with her nimble fingers.  Anakin wears her newest creation, a necklace composed of hollow japor branches.

Watto is gruff, but not angry, when they go to retrieve their controllers.  Shmi had suspected the Toydarian was less foul than he let on, but never expected to see the truth of it.  Watto pats Anakin on the head and tells him to be a good Jedi; he takes Shmi’s hand and wishes her a good life.

She does not say farewell to her friends.  She doesn’t have any.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Coruscant horrifies her. 

She tries not to let on, since Anakin loves it.  It is, for now, her home, but the sheer amount of life and noise means she wants to stay indoors.  She was raised Outer Rim, and not even Malastare can claim this much _bustle_.

Despite all of this, she thinks Obi-Wan suspects.  He comes to see her early on the morning of Anakin’s testing for admission to the Jedi.  She has already risen and dressed, as has Anakin; a slave’s life does not allow for sleeping in, and dawn was always her waking call.  Obi-Wan is alert and cheerful, but those awful nightmares he suffered during the trip have marked his eyes and skin.  She hopes that returning to his home has brought him some relief.

Obi-Wan intrigues her.   He bears the signs of what their shared experience did to him, far more than Anakin does.  When Shmi looks into his eyes, she sees an old man who is sedate and comfortable with his life.  He rivals Jinn for the calm he contains, a serenity that Shmi admires, since she has never had much of it herself.  He has a warm, ready smile, and, she soon learns, an absolutely _wicked_ sense of humor.

The young Knight is happy to see them, and Anakin is happy to see him.  There is an exchange of hugs where Anakin clings to Obi-Wan as if he has found his long-lost brother.  She is not jealous; she could never give Anakin a sibling, and if Obi-Wan is to be that brother, then he is a good choice.

Obi-Wan takes her to the Market District.  At first she is nervous, because she is _outside_ , and the whole of Coruscant looms over her head.

Then she steps out amid the crowd of vendors hocking their wares, joining the sea of people, and something within her eases.  The markets on Ballist V were like this: noisy and filled with smells good and bad, the press of bodies creating a heat that cut through the permanent chill in the air.  She has not been on Ballist V since she was a much younger woman, but she remembers.

Cho Mar is worth more than Republic credits, and to her surprise it is welcomed by the first vendor she decides to greet.  “I hit the Outer Rim to resupply,” the female Besalisk says, giving Shmi a wide smile.  “Your coin’s good, and will earn you a discount besides, since I don’t get much Cho here.”

Anakin is delighted by all of the fabric and clothes the Besalisk woman has on display, and Shmi finds something for her son, first.  He needs clothes as much as she does, whether or not he becomes an Initiate.  Even Obi-Wan has clothes other than his Jedi togs.  He’s wearing them now, though Shmi suspects they are his _only_ non-Jedi apparel.  He wears a blue shirt that rivals her own clothes for being plain, and his trousers are worn and faded and could easily fit someone taller. 

Shmi realizes the clothes have been borrowed, in effort to help her feel more comfortable.  “Ben,” she calls, using the name Anakin sometimes slips and uses.  There is no doubt he is used to the name; Obi-Wan turns, giving her a questioning look. 

“You need something that fits,” she tells him, hiding a smile and using her best Mother voice.

He blinks several times and then looks down at himself.  “Oh.  That’s probably a good idea.”

The Besalisk, Oma, is beside herself.  She has noticed the lightsaber that hangs at Obi-Wan’s side.  “Delightful,” she says.  “I am a good judge of size, young Jedi.  Do allow me the honor of selecting the first thing you try?”

It takes an hour, but by the time Oma is through with them, Shmi has a wardrobe, the first she’s owned since being dismissed from household service.  Better still, there is nothing of a uniform in any of her choices, and she wears her beloved berry red once more. 

Anakin is in a white shirt and black trousers, his japor necklace on proud display on top of the new fabric.  Oma looks as if she wishes to burn Anakin and Shmi’s old clothes.  Shmi has decided to keep them, for now.  The Besalisk doesn’t understand, but she suspects Obi-Wan does.

“I’ll get these sent back to the Temple for you, free of charge,” Oma says, and smiles when Shmi tries to protest.  “Standard service, Lady Skywalker.  Come back when you need something, or when your little one’s clothes get snug.  I’ll let the stitches out, give him a better chance to wear it thoroughly before he outgrows it all.”

Obi-Wan chooses only a single, forest-colored shirt, and dark trousers that fit.  “I’m picky,” he explains, when Shmi eyes him sternly.

It has been explained to her that there is a commissary, free to every Temple resident, but Shmi wants to use her own skills in the kitchen.  Now that it is no longer necessity for their very survival, she suspects she may enjoy cooking again.  Her new quarters in the Temple came stocked with plain dishware and utensils, but she lacks certain tools.   

Obi-Wan takes her to a blade store.  She used to be a household servant in a posh residence, and still this place has knives that she can’t put name to. 

The vendor smells her inexperience, and thinks he has Obi-Wan pegged as naïve.  The Vrosk tries to sell them a kit from the window.  Obi-Wan is not impressed, and calls them cheap.  Shmi has no idea if the kit is cheap or not; she just needs sharp things to prepare food with.

“You insult me, young Jedi,” the Vrosk says, his crest rising in indignance.  “My wares are not cheap!”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes.  He takes the long carving knife from the kit and brings it up and down in a blur of motion, burying the blade in the wood of the counter.  Then, using no visible strength, he grips the hilt and snaps it free.

To Shmi’s surprise, the Vrosk laughs.  “Okay, okay!  You win, kid.  Want to see the good stuff?”

“Please,” Obi-Wan says, smiling.

The Vrosk’s true wares are in a hidden room behind the counter.  It is a large, well-lit space that smells like oil and steel.  Now she is truly lost, for this is well outside her limited education. 

Obi-Wan smiles and selects a carving knife that fits her hand, a wide, grooved blade with a chopping heft, and a paring knife that she could perform major surgery with.  The three blades cost five times as much as the full kit, and Obi-Wan buys them for her.

“Gift,” he insists when Shmi protests.  His eyes flash; she sees the Jedi, then, and knows that he means this, that there is no way to refute his desire to give her these things.

“Besides,” Obi-Wan adds, nonchalant.  “Think about what you’ve just held.”

Shmi remembers the feel of the large blade in her hand, and realizes.  The knives are useful tools, yes, but he has also given her weapons.   “Thank you,” she says, smiling.  She is not sure how it is that a young Jedi understands a slave’s fierce desire for objects of protection, but she is grateful.  “Show me how to use them.”

“I will,” he promises, and does so the day after he finishes moving into his own quarters.  She finds this out when he gives her a passcode for the door.

“But why?” Shmi asks, still bewildered.  He is a Jedi Knight.  There is no need for a former slave to be able to gain access to Obi-Wan Kenobi’s quarters.

“Well, you may need to fetch Anakin, on occasion.  He’ll find his way there soon enough,” Obi-Wan says.  He is smiling as he speaks, but there is a hint of sadness in it.  “Besides.  All of my friends will have a copy of that code.”

“Slaves do not make very good friends,” Shmi says out of habit, and then hates the fact that she spoke the words.

He doesn’t seem bothered.  “Some would argue the same of Jedi friendships,” Obi-Wan replies with a shrug.  “If it makes you more comfortable, consider this:  You and Qui-Gon Jinn are the only two people outside of Anakin and the Jedi Council who know the full truth of what happened to us.  It is not a connection I will give up lightly.”

She is ashamed of herself.  “I regret my words, Obi-Wan.”

He smiles.  “Do not.  There is no shame in speaking your mind.”

She decides to change the subject; when he speaks in such a way, it is very easy to see the old Jedi Master in the young boy, and it’s still a strange thing to experience.   She holds up the first knife, the one with the grooves.  “Show me what to do with these.  I do not want to be defenseless.”

Obi-Wan nods.  “The long knife—carry it in your left hand, reversed.  See here, when you raise your arm?”

She learns to use the long carving knife as an arm guard when blocking a blow, to use it as a secondary weapon without having to shift her grip while her right hand chops with the heavier blade.  If she loses those, he teaches her the best place to keep the paring knife, to use in close range when all other options fail.

It’s _exhilarating._   For the first time in years, she starts to feel some measure of safety.  She will best no Jedi with a set of kitchen knives, but Obi-Wan is no stranger to dirty tricks.  Shmi learns fast and well.

“Who taught you?” Shmi asks, setting the knives down on her kitchen counter while Obi-Wan puts the furniture of her new quarters back where it belongs.  He uses the Force, but floating furniture doesn’t bother her.  Anakin has been floating things around almost since birth.

“A cook,” Obi-Wan says, and grins.  “I’ll introduce you soon.  He…ah…is not yet aware that I know of his naughtier pastimes.”

The next day, Shmi finds that he has gone on his first mission, paired with Master Qui-Gon.  She smiles at the note, but then frowns at the addition of an appointment time and a map that marks a strange room in the Temple.  There is no explanation, but she goes anyway, out of curiosity.

To Shmi’s surprise, she meets Master Micah Giett there.  The man smiles in greeting, and then teaches her to build, fire, reload, and dismantle three different types of blasters in a single hour.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Adi Gallia is a strong woman.  She possesses a sound mind, a kind, keen wit, and has beautiful creamed-caff skin, set off by luminous blue-violet eyes.

Shmi has just a bit of a crush on her.

It’s been a long time since she has lain with a man, or a woman.  Perhaps she slept with a man in order to conceive Anakin, but if this is true, she has no memory of it.  Her last female companion is ten years dead, killed in the Hale Riots.

She is tempted to speak of it—she is a free woman now, and can do those things—but it takes only one moment to see how Master Adi’s eyes wander to the stern, sober visage of senior Master Mace Windu to put an end to such notions.  With a simple turn of phrase, Adi is actually discussing this with Shmi, and she discovers just how long the Haruun Kal has kept Adi Gallia’s attention.

The patience of these people!  Haven’t they heard that it is wisest to just go and _speak_ to the object of their affections?

Shmi says as much to Adi, who smiles.  “All things have their time and place.”

She is not so sanguine.  “And what if one of you dies before the time and place come to pass?”

Adi is quick with her answer.   “Then we will meet again in the Force.”  The words are true, but Shmi knows it is not what the Corellian woman actually wants.

“There are plenty of people I wish to never see again, Force or no Force,” Shmi says, crossing her arms and scowling.  Adi laughs; their friendship is secured over gossipy matchmaking in the commissary.

 

*          *          *          *

 

It’s Master Giett who offers her employment in the Temple.  Shmi is so shocked by this action that she can only stare at the datapad he has handed her.  Responsibilities and payment schedules are at the top of the file list.

“Job?” she repeats blankly.

“You know, getting paid to work?  Nice environment, low stress, no sand?”  He is teasing her, but Shmi doesn’t mind.  Micah Giett is a boisterous man, with a stout build, thinning hair, and a grin that could cover parsecs.  He means no harm by teasing, and she finds she welcomes it.  She does not like being treated like glass. 

Unlike her confusing feelings for Master Adi, Master Micah does not stir any sort of romance in her heart.  She doesn’t think Giett would even notice if he had.

“I know what you meant,” she says, and puts the datapad down on her kitchen table.  Anakin is in the creche tonight, finally comfortable sharing his nighttime space with so many other small, breathing bodies.  Her quarters feel too large.  She gets out and explores the Temple at every opportunity, even if she is still too timid to go anywhere except the Market District without an escort.

“Are you sure you’re not overpaying me?” she thinks to ask.

Master Giett shakes his head.  “No, ma’am.  I like my testicles where they are, and wouldn’t risk them by insulting you.”

It’s hard not to laugh.  “You are used to some very interesting women, Master Jedi.”

“Lady Skywalker, you have no idea,” he says, his eyes sparkling with good humor.  “What do you think?  We could always use more support staff, and Anakin is blithering all the time about how good you are with mechanics.”

“He’s better than I.”  Shmi sighs, but knows she’s going to accept.  “Anakin needs a mute button.”

Giett snickers.  “Most five-year-olds do. “

She starts work on the twelfth level of the Temple hangar system the next day, repairing tiny components from the Order’s fleet of myriad ships.  It’s good work, and without the threat of Hutts and Watto and Anakin’s safety hanging over her head, she remembers that she enjoys it.

 

*          *          *          *

 

There is a message waiting on her terminal after her third day of work as a free woman.   She brings up the text; the Healers of the Temple are requesting her presence at twelfth hour the next day.  Shmi doesn’t sleep that night, in a terror over what they might have found.

Shmi is used to hiding her feelings, but she is among Jedi, and the fear must be obvious.  The Healer named Jale Terza takes one look at Shmi and brings her into a private office, offering her tea and tart, berry-filled cookies.

“You’re not here for an interrogation, and nothing is wrong,” Terza says, after Shmi’s hands are no longer shaking and the tea is half-drank.  “I’m sorry.  I should have made sure the message was more specific, but we’re all used to dealing with Jedi, or Temple Staff.”

“I’m Temple Staff,” Shmi says, because it’s still new enough that saying it is a matter of pride.

The Healer nods.  “Congratulations to you.  But you haven’t been here long enough to realize that most Temple staff has lived here since early childhood.  They are Initiates steered in the direction of their talents, or children with borderline midichlorian counts.”

“Borderline?” Shmi repeats, curious.

“Not a high enough count to become Initiates, but not low enough that it is safe for them to remain with their families,” Terza explains.  “There are very few beings in the Temple who are not sensitive to the Force in some way.”

“Is that why I’m here?”

“Yes, and no,” Terza says.  “I only wanted to review the results of all of those tests with you in person.  I thought it might be better if you saw a familiar face.”

Shmi relaxes further.  “That’s very kind of you.  Why do you tell me both answers are true?”

“Because you have a midichlorian count of nine thousand.” 

“Yes?”  Shmi waits, wondering what else is to be said.

“I forget; you wouldn’t understand what that means.”  Terza scrubs at her eyes and then pours herself a second cup of tea.  Shmi watches, amused.  It seems the entire Order survives on the substance.   “Your count is in the range of those who become Initiates.  If not for your enslavement, you would have been raised here.”

Shmi is not a stupid woman.  “That’s why I’m being allowed to stay, isn’t it?”

Terza seems appalled by the idea.  “Good gods, no.  That’s certainly not the _only_ reason.  No matter the status of your midichlorians, you would receive counseling, therapy, funds—whatever was needed to begin a new life.  Having a midrange count just makes it easier for you to adapt to Temple living.  Force sensitives have an instinctive understanding of the needs of other Force sensitives.  You work in the hangar, yes?  Doing repairs?”

“Yes,” Shmi says, trying not to feel overwhelmed.  She cannot fathom the thought of being a Jedi. 

 “Your talent in the Force, even untrained, will allow you to choose to repair those things that are needed first.  You’ve experienced that already, I imagine,” Terza says.

Shmi puts down her tea cup and folds her hands in her lap.  “Yes.”

“I’ve made you uncomfortable.  I’m sorry,” the Healer says, and her regret is genuine.

She shakes her head.  “You are giving me information.  It is not your fault that I am unprepared to hear it.”

Terza nods.  “I understand.  Shall we discuss the more mundane parts of your test results?”

“Please.”  Shmi latches onto the offer as if it is a lifeline.

The Jedi Healer tells Shmi that she is in good health, with no diseases—lucky, considering her life.  Shmi also has at least thirty years of childbearing ability left to her if the Healers intervene now, which is a surprise.  

Intervention is nothing more frightening than a small white pill, taken daily for a month, and Shmi accepts the offer.  She can’t imagine getting pregnant, or having more children, but a month ago, she didn’t think she would ever be released from slavery.  Shmi is open to the possibility that it _might_ be so, one day.

At first she is afraid to ask, but then does so anyway.  “Six years ago, I woke up ill, and quickly discovered I was pregnant,” Shmi says, trying to keep hesitation from marking her voice.  “I do not know who Anakin’s father is, or if he has one.  I know almost nothing about my people; it is possible that I didn’t need a partner to conceive.  But it would be nice to know what other lineage my son carries.”

Terza frowns.  “Lady Skywalker—”

“Shmi.  Please.”

The Healer nods.  “Then I am Terza, not Healer.”  When Shmi looks baffled, Terza smiles and explains, “I hate my surname.”

“Ah.”  Shmi doesn’t see anything wrong with Jale, but then, she is not the one bearing the name.

“I will find out what I can,” Terza says.  “I will say this now:  You are a full human, Shmi, so single parent conception isn’t possible.  I have plenty of Anakin’s blood available already, so I will test those samples and let you know what I find.”

“How long?” Shmi asks, even though she is in no hurry.  There is little she can do with the information other than share it with Anakin, when he is old enough.

 “A few days to fully map his genetic sequence,” Terza says.  “Then follows research of the results, to give you an idea of where in the galaxy Anakin might find his father’s family.  It’s always good to know parental lineage, anyway.  I hate nasty medical surprises, and mapping his genome will certainly reveal if there are any.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“They’re _late_ ,” Anakin says in greeting.

Shmi is still rubbing sleep from her eyes.  Dawn is just a hint through the windows of her quarters.  “Ani?” 

“They’re late,” he repeats, a frown on his small face.  “I got the timetable from Obi-Wan’s terminal.  They were due back yesterday.”

Shmi needs caff.  And tea.  It’s too early to try to keep up with her son’s thought process.  “What?”

“Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon were due back yesterday, and they’re not listed in the Temple registry as incoming,” Anakin explains, dragging his mother into the kitchen and making tea while Shmi fights another yawn. 

“Ani, don’t you think you’re overreacting?” she finally asks.  He is supposed to be in the crèche, not stealing into her quarters before the sun is up.

Anakin shoves tea in her direction with an impatient look.  This is one of those moments when he is not acting his age.  It’s endearing, if odd.  “They were going to Cardova II,” he says, as if it explains everything. 

“And?” Shmi asks, sipping tea.  When he’s not paying attention, Anakin can brew tea to perfection.  Today he is concerned with other things, so the liquid is delightful.

“Cardova II is _boring,_ ” Anakin clarifies, still frowning.  “If anything, they should be back early.  This was supposed to be an easy mission, so they could…”  He waves his hands around in the air.  “Get used to each other.  Acclimate, that’s the word.”

She begins to feel concern.  She is still uncertain as to what sort of relationship she will have with Master Qui-Gon, but Obi-Wan has a deep connection with her son, and there is burgeoning friendship between them.  “Perhaps I can comm Master Giett.”

“You have Master Giett’s comm?” Anakin is surprised.

“He is teaching me to shoot things,” Shmi confides.  She has been keeping the lessons a secret, wanting to surprise her son with her new skill, but now is as good a time to tell him as any.

Anakin grins wide.  “Wizard.  You have to show me later, but comm him now?”

Master Giett is not an early riser.  She learns this when he answers the comm, groaning, “Oh gods, _why?_ ”

“Master Micah, my son has awoken me very early this morning.  He is concerned about Master Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, and I don’t think I’ll be able to soothe him until he hears from your lips that they are safe.”

Master Micah does not spew platitudes and reassurances.  Instead he says, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

 _Now_ Shmi is worried.

He arrives in twelve minutes.  “I should have known that you would notice,” Master Giett says to Anakin.

Anakin frowns.  “I’m right, and they’re in trouble.  How did they get into trouble on Cardova II?”

Master Giett sighs.  “Because they didn’t go to Cardova II.”

Anakin’s eyebrows rise.  “What!”

Giett sniffs the air and makes a beeline for Shmi’s tea kettle.  “There was a mix-up, one that wasn’t discovered until it was too late.  Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan happened to get a ride with a grumpy, methane-breathing bastard named Ketch, who was pulling transport duty to pay off a debt to the Order.  We attempted to contact Ketch when the error was discovered, but—”  Micah scowls.  “Ketch wouldn’t actually give us the chance to tell him.  More fool him.”

“Where are they, then?” Shmi asks, giving Micah the sugar bowl when he starts poking around for it.

“There was a full team of eight who were supposed to ship out and deal with a situation on Agnata.  Ketch got the orders, but it listed the wrong landing platform,” Micah explains.  He winces when Anakin explodes into Huttese swearing.

“Agnata?” Anakin exclaims, stilling the curses after a stern look from Shmi.  “Geeze, Master Micah!  Why didn’t you just send them to Nal Hutta, instead?”

Micah snorts.  “Because we’re not putting Qui-Gon Jinn anywhere near Nal Hutta unless we want to start a war with the Hutts.  Relax, young Skywalker,” he says, and rests his hand on Anakin’s shoulder.  “They will be fine.  Retrieval transport has already arrived on Agnata.”

“But they haven’t been found yet, have they?” Anakin asks.

The Jedi Master frowns.  “No.  How do you know that, Anakin?”

“Because it’s my Master we’re talking about, and he’s covered in targets,” Anakin retorts.  He goes over to the couch, plops down on it, and proceeds to sulk.  The sulk is a relief; he looks much more like a five-year-old boy when he does so.

Micah is surprised, but Shmi is not the least bit startled by Anakin’s declaration.  She knew from their first meeting that Anakin will allow no one else to make claim on him, even if it is Master Yoda himself. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

Shmi meets Cliegg Lars and his son, Owen, before her errant Jedi rescuers return from Agnata.  She doesn’t know there will be anyone visiting her quarters after a long shift, so when she opens the door at the chime, there is grease still staining her hands, and possibly also marking her face and dirtying her hair. 

She meets startled, pale blue eyes, and attempts a smile.  “Yes?”

“Sorry, I, uh—”  Her visitor seems just as confused as she is.

“We’re looking for my brother, Ben,” the small boy with him pipes up.  He has the same eyes and pale brown hair as the man; the family resemblance is unmistakable.  

“You won’t find him here,” Shmi says, some of her confusion fading.  Anakin mentioned something about Obi-Wan’s family a few weeks ago.  “He’s still on Agnata, as far as I understand.”

“Agnata?”  The man looks upset, perhaps a bit angry.  “What are they trying to do, kill him?”

“I believe my son asked much the same question,” Shmi says dryly.  “Come in,” she invites them, to be polite—and also, because she is curious.  “But I’m not sure why you’re here.” 

“There’s a redirect message on Obi-Wan’s comm that says if we can’t contact him in this Temple, then we should come find a Lady Shmi Skywalker,” the man says, glancing around the living room curiously.  “I guess that’s you.”

“It is,” she says, watching in amusement as the little boy tromps straight to the window to stare at the distant Senate dome in awe.

“Thank the Force for that, because if you didn’t exist, we’d be lost for certain,” he says, and extends his hand with a smile.  “Cliegg Lars.”

“Shmi Skywalker,” she says, perhaps unnecessarily.  It is easy to smile back at this man, though.  She likes the look of him.  She likes the _feel_ of him.

“The little one drooling on your window is Owen, my son,” he explains.  Owen waves one hand in absent greeting.  “To be honest, I was afraid something like this might happen.”

“What do you mean?” Shmi asks, and gestures for him to take a seat on her sofa.  Most of her manners come from her days of household servitude, and are handy when an unfamiliar situation might otherwise unnerve her.

“Well, we haven’t seen him since—” Cliegg Lars hesitates a brief moment, but continues, “—since his mother’s funeral, four years ago.  I was surprised to get the invitation, but true to Jedi form, he’s not here to even see us.”  He sighs.

“To be _fair,_ ” she says, narrowing her eyes a bit, “It was not his choice.  He would have been here to greet you, had things not gotten boggled.”  Shmi explains about the miscommunication, the planetary mix-up, and Ketch, who had sulked much like a toddler and refused to answer his comm when recalls were issued.  More fool him, indeed—from what Shmi has overheard, it seems the recalcitrant pilot is now deceased.

“Sorry,” Cliegg apologizes, and wilts under her gaze.  “It’s just that things have been rocky.  After Obi-Wan’s last visit, I haven’t been the best at communicating, and neither has he.  I was just going to let it go, let him be a Jedi, and then he calls out of the blue and wants to see me.”  Cliegg runs his hands through his hair, flustered.  “Shit.  I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“My son is an Initiate in the crèche,” Shmi says, feeling sympathy override her temper.  “I think, one day, I may understand how you feel.”

“Yeah.”  Cliegg attempts a smile.  It highlights old grief lines on his face, but it makes his blue eyes shine.  “You seem to be pretty fond of my son.”

“I owe him a great debt that I am uncertain I will ever be able to repay,” Shmi explains in a soft voice.  “Were it not for Obi-Wan and his Master, I would still be on Tatooine.”

Cliegg’s face lights up, and the tentative smile becomes a grin.  “What a small damn galaxy we live in,” he says.  “I used to live on Tatooine.”

Shmi feels her mouth open in surprise.  “Really?”

Cliegg nods, pleased.  “Born and raised.  My family had a farm outside of Anchorhead, near old Mos Entha.  I still own the place, but I haven’t been there in years.  What about you?”

“Mos Espa,” she says, and holds out her hand in greeting.  “Slave quarter.”

Cliegg Lars doesn’t even blink in the face of her revelation.  “A pleasure to meet a beautiful lady,” he says, smiling, and he takes her hand in his.  He has a working-man’s hands, but they are clean, and his touch is gentle.

When Anakin comes to visit later, he greets Shmi’s guests with a wide smile and acts like a charming five-year-old.  He and Owen, half a year younger than her Ani, bond over a children’s science fiction holodrama on the ’Net.

Shmi knows her son well.  Though he says nothing of it, Anakin has met Cliegg and Owen Lars before.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Cliegg and Owen end up staying in guest quarters not far from hers.  For a full week, she is their host, when she is not working.

“Thank goodness it’s the end of season,” Cliegg says on the fourth day, as they stroll along the posh avenues of the Senate district.  Cliegg lives on Ator, an ecumenopolis like Coruscant, and is used to the intensity of the city.  Shmi feels like a tourist, and stares around almost as much as Owen does.  “I wouldn’t be able to stay any longer, otherwise.”

He tells her about the farm he tends, getting paid by the government to work the southern lands that supply the city population.  Shmi finds herself talking about her life as well: of Tatooine and Gardulla the Hutt, of Kabray Station, Ballist V, Atzerri, Nimban, Tueet, Gambrell Station, and Rockfall.  She’s lived and worked on many worlds, and it’s amazing now to recount it all, to realize how varied her skills actually are. 

“Is there anything you haven’t done?” Cliegg asks, on their return to the Temple.

“Farming,” she replies, and he laughs.

 

*          *          *          * ****  
  


When Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon return, three days later, Shmi doesn’t need her comm to tell Anakin so.

Shmi knows because it’s her hangar that their ship lands in.  She doesn’t understand why she pays the strange vessel any more attention than the others that go in and out during her shifts, but the instinct pays off when she sees that it is Master Qui-Gon and his young Knight partner who debark.

She has educated herself about Agnata.  She signs out of her work station and goes to see if they still have all of their limbs.

Master Windu gets there first.  Master Qui-Gon sees him and scowls.  The two Masters proceed to have the quietest shouting match Shmi has ever witnessed, while Obi-Wan stands to one side and laughs at them both.

Shmi decides to take her cue from Obi-Wan.  “Did you have a nice time?” she asks.

Obi-Wan grins at her.  “Cordova II was very different than I recall.”  His Jedi tunics are missing, though he still has his lightsaber, and his hair has grown out a bit.  He is clean and in good spirits, but there is a jewel-tone pattern of bruises encircling his throat that speak of the less-peaceful nature of their visit.

“So I heard,” Shmi replies.  “You’re about to be assaulted by my son,” she adds, just in time for Anakin to slingshot across the hangar bay and launch himself at the young Knight.

“Hello, Ani,” Obi-Wan says, unperturbed by the flying tackle.  “Have you behaved in my absence?”

“Of course!” Anakin retorts.  “I’m always perfectly behaved.”

Obi-Wan shares a look with Shmi that leaves her struggling to hide a smile.  They both know better.  “Is there anything else newsworthy that I’ve missed?”

“Your father is here,” she says. 

Obi-Wan looks at her.  He says nothing, but it’s hard to miss the sudden tension in the air.

She understands more of Cliegg’s initial misgivings, now.  “I like him.  He cheats at card games, though.”

Obi-Wan smiles at the accusation, and the tension fades.  “No, he doesn’t.  He doesn’t need to.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

The Lars family has said their goodnights for the evening.  Anakin is sleeping in the bedroom Shmi keeps ready for him in her quarters.  Obi-Wan has gone to seek his own bed; while in good spirits for the duration of the evening, she can tell he is still tired by whatever befell the pair on Agnata.  One day, she may even be brave enough to ask what happened.

Qui-Gon remains in her kitchen, helping to clean up from the meal.  Shmi is a bit dazed; she is unused to having company.  She is unused to such unrelenting _cheer._

She thinks it will be nice to recover her equilibrium over warm tea and quiet conversation.  Instead, Qui-Gon tells her about a prophecy that is thousands of years old, and of the possibility that Anakin might be its focus. 

Shmi is less shocked by this than she might have been a year ago.  She asks, “Why tell me now?”

Qui-Gon smiles, but it is easy to see that he is troubled.  “I think, given the influence you will always have on Anakin’s life, that it is better for you to know.  You would not wish to hear false reassurances about his fate.  Knowing the truth, you will be less likely to subject Anakin to the same.”

“Is Ani aware of this prophecy?”

He thinks it over for a moment, and Shmi appreciates all the more that he _is_ telling her, that Qui-Gon is still treating her as an intelligent woman who has a say in her son’s fate.  “I believe he does.  I asked him about the prophecy, out of curiosity.  Anakin rolled his eyes and stated that prophecies are stupid.”

She laughs and then stifles it, not wanting to wake the tired Initiate they are speaking of. 

As if fate decreed it, Terza calls Shmi back to the Healers’ Ward the next afternoon.  The Healer tells Shmi that Anakin shows no signs of having paternal DNA. 

She nods in response.  It’s not really a surprise. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Can I comm you?” Cliegg asks her on the last day of his visit.  Owen has already clambered into the speeder that will fly the Lars family to their transport offworld.  He and Obi-Wan are having some last-minute conversation; whatever the subject matter is, it has put a grin on the little boy’s face.

“Of course,” Shmi says.  Cliegg already has her contact information, thanks to their very first meeting.  “It would be a pleasure to hear from you again.”

It’s not until she’s seen them off, and their speeder is nothing but a speck in the distance, that she realizes what he has really asked her.  She receives her first missive from Cliegg Lars that very evening.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The first time payment is credited to her new account, Shmi weeps over her terminal display screen.


End file.
